My Legacy
by TopHatSnoo
Summary: One shot. An illustration of Erik's thought process in the end and his reflection on his life. Susan Kay based.


Last year i finally had the honor of being able to visit the Palais Garnier. Being in Australia, it always seemed like a place that I would never reach, so to be there was quite... surreal to say the least. At the same time though, i felt as though i knew it so well. Stepping into that magnificent building, i was.. kind of moved... It probably wouldnt have affected people who aren't 'Phans' as much as it affected me but i just thought... _If_ Erik was real (and of course most of us on here do), and _if_ we follow the legend that he built or had input in the construction of the Garnier, no one will ever know. No one will know his tragic story and his genius and i suppose he would have preferred it that way but it just filled me with such sadness. I was just blown away by the brilliance and the beauty of the place and i thought, people need to know.

I also thought it might interest some of you to know that there _was_ someone named Erik (or Eric i think it actually was... but close enough) who was an architect that Garnier contracted during the construction of the opera. One day one of the builders saw him go beneath the opera (as we all should know, there _was_ and _is_ a subterranean lake beneath) and he was never seen again. I cant remember where i read that but ill try and source it later, if i can. Of all the facts you read about the Garnier, this just blew me away.

Of course, they have at last allowed him his precious Box 5 (a lot of good it will do him now); there is a plaque on the door which reads: Loge du fantome de l'opera which is some acknowledgement at least. I just thought...this man, this brilliant man created something so magnificent and those who visit the Garnier each year (probably in the millions) are oblivious. Anyway, i got quite moved by it all and decided to write this; its kind of a telling of Erik's thoughts at the end. (Kay Erik).

Wow. Long intro. Ok.

Phantom belongs to Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Weber (even though he doesn't actually belong to anyone because he _was _real).

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><p>So many memories haunt me, memories that reinforce a painful truth I have tried to endlessly to overcome. Though I have tried to shut them out, to cleanse my mind of such human, such earthly weakness I find that I cannot. I find that no matter what I do, how many skills I master or the number of things I accomplish, nothing matters. For I am me- I shall always be such that this world cannot accept... cannot love. Over the years I have tried to distract myself from these memories and that truth that haunts me.<p>

The morphine dulled the pain; as was its purpose, but this was only a temporary solution, a masking. Sometimes the memories that so haunted me would seep through the self-created delirium; sometimes I would find myself locked inside them, unable to surface... sinking... drowning.

The killings made it worse, with every murder I found myself drifting further and further away from myself, falling deeper into that never-ending abyss of self-loathing...Lost...

Underneath the facade that I have created for myself, I am but a man...

_A boy._

A man who feels and thinks and yearns... and loves...

Is there a way to absolve myself of these years of sinning? Is there still hope for someone like me? Someone who was not born evil but is no more than a product of this world; a world that has shown him nothing but cruelty and hate? Have I spiraled too far? ... them, their world, those people; they have made me who I am; this _angel, _this demon, this man who, as much he denies the need for love, compassion and kindness, burns for them night and day.

Sometimes I can barely breathe for the weight on my chest is so great; the short sleeps that I am able to achieve are almost always interrupted by nightmares of what I have done or what has been done to me. I wake up in a cold sweat, gasping for air, reaching for something in the darkness that is not quite there; that never will be.

Each day this feeling of suffocation intensifies. My life has always felt as though it were building up to something catastrophic; gathering momentum like an avalanche or tidal wave. I cannot say when this disaster will reach absolution, all I can say is that I cannot live in this state very much longer; I fear that I won't- I've never felt like I would be alive very long, it seems a sin having been born in the first place.

Perhaps I could have achieved something great, perhaps my talents were meant to be used towards something magnificent besides this embellished tomb I have created for myself; but at least there is this; something... something to show for myself, my legacy. Although for hundreds of years to come those who enter it will not know my name, who I am, or that I even existed...

I will know. I hope that those who experience the splendor of this place; of my life's work in two hundred years time will be impressed, I hope that it moves them the same way it does me. I don't know what will have become of modern architecture but I don't suppose that something this marvelous could ever be out of favor. I hope that it is not demolished for it is all that remains of me, all that remains of this poor excuse for a man whom no one could love, no one could _see_.

I suppose that Christine Daae is my legacy also, I don't doubt that I put her through a lot in the end but surely she will retain some of the knowledge she allowed me to share with her. Surely she will retain some of the affection she felt for me after i am gone... if any at all. Surely she will not forget me so easily and when her children and grand children ask her where she learned it all, she will think fondly of me and tell them of her tutor. I have so many hopes for that perfect, perfect woman. I hope that I was of some help to her over the years. I hope that she remembers me as her Angel of Music, as her tutor and not as I was in the end... I hope above all else that she continues with her music... if nothing else that will be legacy enough.

It was foolish to think that I could make her love me, when I was so incomplete myself. Foolish to think that I could cover up so much pain, so much evil with something as perfect and as good... as pure as her.

I loved her more than I could bear it, and It seemed I loved her more than my weak heart could bear it also. Surely it was not accustomed to being so full, experiencing that much feeling; it could not bear the weight. No matter, a life with love is a complete life, isn't it? Even if that love was not returned? I do not blame Christine for her actions, for her choices. What sort of angel would I be if I did? ...What sort of man would I be? I wish her more happiness that I know how to comprehend and can accept her choice because I knew that she would not find that with me. My love for Christine was surely the catalyst I was speaking of, the tidal wave has crashed upon me and now the pain in my chest is constant.

I feel as though my weak heart is soon to give up; surely it is as tired as I am of this farcical life of mine. I feel as though I have tasted enough of this world and I am ready to leave it behind, I have tasted hate so strong that it drove me underground, tasted love so powerful that it has ended me. I am tired... just tired of that which I have spent years trying to overcome and I have nothing left... No love, no hate, no juvenile need for acceptance. I am ready.

Forgive me, Christine. I only ever wanted the best for you and i hope that you are able to live a wonderful life... one that i never could. Do not worry for your poor Angel, live your life and know that i will always be smiling down on you. I hope that you return to the Opera one day, Christine, for when you do i will be here... ever watching... ever protecting... ever loving.

I've no doubt that in years to come _I_ will be forgotten, the few who knew of me will die as will those who knew them, the story of the Opera Ghost; of _Erik_, will be all but lost; maybe nothing more than a ghost story or superstition. I suppose that is rather fitting...

I find now that I am at my end, I have made peace with the world, made peace with this face of mine that predetermined the path I was to follow long before I was ever able to open my eyes. All that i have is my legacy; this building and all that occurred within its walls. Who knows... perhaps in two hundred years they will _still_ be blaming The Opera Ghost for the mishaps which occur... and who knows... perhaps they will be right. I always _have_ been a ghost after all.


End file.
